Earlier Peredonov had displayed these books ostentatiously to show that he was a man of emancipated ideas, though actually he had no ideas at all and no inclination towards reflection. And he only kept these books for show, not to read. It was now a long time since he had read a book—he used to say he had no time—he did not subscribe to a newspaper. He got his news from other people. In fact there was nothing he wanted to know—there was nothing in the outside world he was interested in. He used even to deride subscribers to newspapers as people who wasted both time and money. One might have thought that his time was very valuable!
He went up to the shelf, grumbling.
"That's what happens in this town—you may get reported any minute. Lend a hand here, Pavel Vassilyevitch," he said to Volodin.
Volodin walked towards him with a grave and comprehending countenance and carefully took the books that Peredonov handed to him. Peredonov, carrying a heap of books, went into the parlour, followed by Volodin, who carried a large pile.
"Where do you mean to hide them, Ardalyon Borisitch "he asked.
"Wait and you'll see," replied Peredonov with his usual gruffness.
"What are you taking away there, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Prepolovensky.
"Most strictly forbidden books," answered Peredonov from the door. "I should be reported if they were found here."
Peredonov sat on his heels before the brick stove in the parlour. He threw down the books on the iron hearth and Volodin did the same. Peredonov began with difficulty to force book after book into the small opening. Volodin sat on his heels just behind Peredonov and handed him the books, preserving at the same time an air of profound comprehension on his sheepish face, his protruded lips and heavy forehead expressing his sense of importance. Varvara looked at them through the door. She said laughing:
"They've got a new joke!"